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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285554">Of Snakes and Waterfalls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/missing_archive_401/pseuds/missing_archive_401'>missing_archive_401</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arthur sings, Charles listens, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:27:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285554</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/missing_archive_401/pseuds/missing_archive_401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles didn’t think Arthur sang, until one early morning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Of Snakes and Waterfalls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charles had never listened to Arthur sing.  Sure, there were times when he joined the drunk bastard Uncle in a sloppy rendition of the Ring-Dang Do, but never really heard him actually sing.  He supposed Arthur was just a man who didn’t sing, quiet in his stature and humming thoughtfully, like Charles himself did.  He didn’t force himself to be curious over something he didn’t think was there, and left it at that. </p><p>Charles realized quite quickly that Arthur would get up early, far earlier than he should, and would do morning chores: feed the horses, chop firewood, stoke the flames of the campfires, feed the chickens, carry the egg crates to the chuck wagon, top off the wash bin and water trough for the horses, brush down the horses and look over their tack, even going out to catch game for the camp stew.  He was efficient, if not ridiculous for getting up before the ass-crack of Dawn, but Charles digressed.  </p><p>But now, awake at the time Arthur gets up due to some miraculous reason, Charles hears a low howl, sad and happy at the same time, flittering through camp.  It sounded like a wolf, alone but okay to be alone, if that made sense, proud and ashamed in a clash of inner turmoil.  But this was not a lone wolf, but a different beast entirely.  This was Arthur Morgan, singing in a low but beautiful noise that gave Charles a shiver down his spine, still not realizing until a rich voice sang out that it was the stoic outlaw. </p><p>“Porch lights, on distant ridges, dark<br/>Rock lined valleys singing with every bark”<br/>Arthur sung, sad and happy in a nostalgic way, just loud enough for Charles to understand him but quiet enough that no one awoke.  Charles stayed still, both in surprise and excitement, and held his breath quietly. </p><p>“From flat water bottom to wind blown timber tall<br/>It’s my land,<br/>Of snakes and waterfalls”<br/>Arthur started his howl again, familiar and not familiar at all, as a sharp axe thudded against wood, chopping firewood, Charles thought numbly in the still cold morning.  Arthur continued the solemn melody, hacking away at the lumber with the ease a wild cat had at catching its prey.</p><p>A pause, singing still, then the pull of grain—maize, specifically—in a bag made Charles recognize Arthur was feeding the chickens.  A clink of a rusty bucket was Arthur topping off the wash bins with river water, the cold morning dew on the grass causing Arthur’s boots to squelch as he trudged along.  The creak of wooden boxes made Charles stir slightly, sitting up to watch Arthur silently as he carried the egg crates to the chuck wagon.  The normally attentive cowboy didn’t notice Charles listening. </p><p>“Sixteen score and seven years my blood’s called home<br/>To all the crimson clay and the old roads that I roam”<br/>Arthur picked up the now empty bucket, turning back to the water to fill it again. </p><p>“This place might be curse’d after all<br/>But it’s my land,<br/>Of snakes and waterfalls”<br/>Arthur filled the horses’ troughs, gathering hay and distributing it to the now growing crowd of horses.  Charles watched with a smile as Traveller lipped at a peppermint in Arthur’s palm, and Arthur gave her a peck on her blaze.   Arthur smiled, too, allowing himself it seems a moment of reprieve. </p><p>“And I know <br/>That when a distant shore’s before me<br/>Oh how my poor heart aches<br/>For every hollow that I forsake<br/>I’ve been trying to run since I could crawl<br/>It’s my land,<br/>Of snakes and waterfalls”<br/>Arthur began to whistle, but it was unlike any whistle Charles had ever heard.  It sounded just like a bird, which were ironically tweeting back at the outlaw, fluttering about and even resting on his shoulder and on the top of his hat.  They bounced along with his jovial movement, his hips swaying easy like the morning breeze.  He grabbed the bristle brush and set to work brushing down the horses, whom of which chuffed in greeting.  He still whistled, a rhythm that he followed in his brush strokes. </p><p>“And I know<br/>That when a distant shore’s before me<br/>Oh how my poor heart aches<br/>For every hollow that I forsake<br/>Blue cave water and canebrakes forever call<br/>Me on home<br/>To snakes and waterfalls”<br/>Arthur finished his brushing, now humming as he began setting up Traveller’s tack and getting holstered in the saddle.  Charles felt a ghost of a grin on his face as Arthur pulled out his bow, checking the arrows and nodding to himself as he continued to hum.  He squeezed Traveller into a trot out of camp, getting food for the still asleep misfit bunch he called family, in a small little lookout he called home.  The sun began to rise as Traveller’s hoofbeats faded in the distance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is a real song!  It’s called Snakes and Waterfalls by Nick Shoulders.  I got it stuck in my head so here we are.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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